


Our Own Best Friends

by VeronicaRich



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Facing their foes, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: In the comedown from stress following the Apocalapse, humanity's generals have to figure out how to best protect each other and their little planet of misfits.





	Our Own Best Friends

He thought of the little scrap of paper in his vest as he trailed the tips of his fingers over the parchment-like edge. He knew it was old stock, and smoke-damaged, and didn’t want to mess with it too much; but, he needed something to do with his hands.

This somehow tied up in his mind with his traveling companion, and how he wouldn’t have been able to snatch the scrap out of the air if Crowley hadn’t rescued the book in the first place, and the memory of utter devastation in his broken voice when he’d said he’d lost his best friend. Said companion was staring resolutely forward, undoubtedly lamenting his lost car and music now that the shock of the day was settling in. For no reason he could immediately vocalize, Aziraphale picked up the demon’s closest hand, curling their palms together, then pulling his right hand out of his pocket to place over the back of it, sandwiching Crowley’s fingers. He was surprised at the lack of immediate response, but a few seconds later, the man – _man? Well, this week at least, he was male_ – gave a little start and turned his head, and Zira realized he’d been napping. “How you can sleep on a moving vehicle is beyond me,” he observed quietly. “Well, how you can sleep, at all. We don’t really need it, do we.”

Crowley gave his fingers a little flex in response, but Zira understood his question. “I’d rather not talk about it on the bus,” he rebutted, keeping his own eyes to the front. Long fingers flexed again, this time sliding between his own, getting a better grip. He absently rubbed his thumb along the little nub of Crowley’s wristbone. “But I do have … an idea, of sorts. To go over later.”

“An idea.” It was quiet, in the same tone he’d reminded Zira of the destroyed bookshop, which made him momentarily catch his breath and clamp down on a strangled sigh, the only thing coming out a little escaped, “Oh.” Crowley’s fingers squeezed his minutely. “Angel-“ he began, and Zira knew he understood the sound he’d made. Nobody in the history of Time had known him as well; not even, it seemed, his own Creator.

That brought him back to his earlier remark and the scrap of paper. “About _them_. Dealing with … things, tomorrow. Whenever.” Okay, it seemed he _would_ rather talk about it now. “The book – Agnes’s book – the scrap from it,” he explained sotto voce, tilting his head to be heard, not quite seeing his companion’s face but feeling eyes on him through the incongruous shades. “I think that prophecy really is about us.” He didn’t want to remove his right hand to reach in his pocket. “Being mindful of our faces; playing with fire. You remember.” He could quote it, but that didn’t seem necessary right now.

“And?”

He breathed in deeply. “I read through the entire book. Agnes was quite literal. She didn’t really deal in metaphors or symbolism.” Or correct spelling, he mused. “If she wrote ‘fire’ … well, she saw flames, of some sort.”

Crowley caught on. “And faces – means our actual faces.”

He turned then to look up into the other’s said face. “I would surmise as much, yes.” Even under the low overhead aisle lights he could see the serpentine eyes through the dark glasses, and the brief drop of eyelids that meant Crowley was watching his mouth. His lips involuntarily parted, and he swallowed and turned to face front again. “Something about fire, and our faces, and-“ He dropped it, not knowing where his mind should go next.

Fortunately, it seemed the other made good use of the rest of the ride to mull it over, for after they were inside Crowley’s flat and Zira was mid-sip of something deeply red and deeply oak-y, the demon blew out a giant breath and said, “Switching.”

He finished swallowing and frowned. “Pardon?”

Tilting the bottle to top off Zira’s glass of wine, he repeated, “Switching. We make Heaven and Hell each think we’re the other.” He set the bottle down and came around to Zira’s side, dropping his voice further. “Rather, we _don’t_ tip them off that we are each other, I mean.”

“That you’re me and I’m you?” He noticed Crowley was almost on top of his personal space, and inhaled the body heat and smoke that clung to his corporation. “Why are you practically whispering in my ear?”

“We don’t know who’s monitoring, do we?” he murmured. “Besides, I think I’m onto something. Is it bothering you?”

“You could not bother me, my dear.”

What sounded like a “hngk” came out of Crowley’s throat, but he asked, “Where’s the prophecy?” Zira pulled it out of his pocket as the demon removed his glasses and tossed them aside before taking the slip of paper. “Riiiiight,” he drawled, instead of reading it aloud this time. “Definitely looks like a switcheroo.”

“Yes, I rather thought so myself.” Zira took another healthy slug of wine and cleared his throat as he turned to face the other fully. “So …”

“So …?” Crowley repeated, cocking his head.

They watched each other for a good twenty seconds. “I mean, one of us has to know how to do this,” Zira finally broke the silence, less for something to say and more to snap the hazy gauze Crowley’s expression seemed to be spinning around the two of them. “You?”

“I know how to inhabit an empty corporation,” Crowley answered slowly, precisely. “But not like you can, with someone already in it.”

“What do you mean, with somebody-“

“You just did it, less than twelve or so hours ago!” he snapped.

“And you’ve never possessed anyone? EVER?”

“That’s not how I work.” When Zira raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “Never seemed to be necessary, really. I just put ideas in their heads; a look here; a well-placed whisper there. Suggestion.” His eyes, shimmering and hooded, were unmoving on Zira’s own.

“Yes. Well-“ He felt flush and tried to shake it off. “I suppose I can see how that would work for you.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not,” Zira admitted. “Seduction’s not _my_ gift, after all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Crowley murmured, and Zira turned, putting his glass aside. “Did-“

“Surely you must know how to carry out a possession even if you’ve never done it, though?” Zira asked, interrupting whatever the other was about to add. He turned back, determined not to step away from their proximity. “Look, Madame Tracy was a receptive medium; I don’t actually know how I managed to find my way inside her body.”

“Bet that’s the first time you’ve had to say that.” Zira realized after a few beats it was a joke, and his mouth parted indignantly as Crowley grinned. Their difference of emotion balanced on a knife’s edge, tense, until Zira finally laughed, loud. “Crowley!” he admonished.

“I couldn’t resist, angel.” There was a rare twinkle of humor in his eyes, the first evidence of non-worry he’d seen in ages – and then he remembered the little twist to his lips as he’d said “I lost my best friend” less than a day ago, and what he’d known at the time were tears, even hidden behind smoked glass.

He was tired of resisting touch. He reached up and cradled the other’s face, pulling their foreheads together gingerly. “My dear,” he sighed, brushing his nose against Crowley’s. “My own lapsed angel.”

His stomach flipped as he felt eyelashes brush his cheeks, Crowley dipping his head to slide their noses together more. _“Aziraphale,”_ he hissed hotly, hands on his back, sliding together to draw their bodies closer. “Thank Satan for that boy to bring you back like this.”

Their lips didn’t meet, instead barely hovering. “I’d wager … this, is a lot milder than what you’re used to,” Zira said with a small self-conscious chuckle, as he explored Crowley’s hair further with his left fingers, feeling short crimson locks card between them. “Not exactly den of iniquity stuff.”

At that, he suddenly had the counter in his back, as Crowley pushed him against it. “I have never been seduced by anyone the way you do it,” he murmured. “You’re just so … so damn … Your allure seems so effortless …”

Hot breath ghosted his lips, nearly as searing as he imagined the depths of hell. “You can’t mean that.” Zira was surprised to hear a growl in his own voice; that nose was rubbing his gently, the mouth almost on top of his. “I mean, the way you look, you … slink, you have got to have others throwing themselves at-“

“I don’t want _them_.” Lips finally touched his, just barely, and he let out a little moan. “I don’t want to touch them, to see their True Forms.” Another light kiss. “I don’t want to stroke their wings and feel their arms and roll around in _their_ essence, angel.”

He couldn’t stand it, tightening his hold on Crowley’s face and hair and tilting his chin up for a more solid kiss. The ache wound its way up from the depths of his millennia-old soul, and he didn’t know how long it lasted before a soft breeze distracted him into breaking it. He pulled back and opened his eyes only to be looking up through slats of dark softness. “Oh, they’re lovely,” he breathed, marveling at the giant black wings curled protectively around the two of them. “I’ve always thought so.”

Soft golden eyes pinned his heart as he gave his lover a smile of pure joy and light. “Here,” he offered, pressing Crowley back several steps, then sighing and allowing his own wings to unfurl. They arched briefly, then automatically wound around the black ones, vibrating gently and brushing them. “My own heart,” he began, but was cut off by more kissing, this one a little rougher and harder. His pulse shot up and he licked the snake’s tongue he could now feel. “My beautiful serpent.”

“Careful, Zira,” he hissed, and the angel laughed joyfully, which also oddly pulled a chuckle from Crowley. “You’ll spoil me.”

“You deserve spoiling,” he said firmly. “All the things you’ve done for me.” He played with Crowley’s hair some more, used the tips of his wings to stroke the spines of the black ones beneath them, now trembling a little. “All the rescues and aid and compassion, and company, and …” He trailed off in realization, then lifted his chin to kiss the other’s nose. “All that love, over all those centuries,” he marveled. “It took me so long to see what I felt all along.”

“And with all your eyes,” Crowley grumbled, but Zira could sense the affection under the words.

“None are so blind as those who refuse to see,” he countered, pulling back to look at him again. “Well, I’m not refusing any longer. I know who’s on my side.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley frowned a bit. “I mean, yeah, but – this is something you’ve come to on your own, right? Things won’t go easy.”

“Difficulty is relative,” he pointed out. “Nothing’s been harder than not being able to credit you for how you’ve made yourself available to help me – to help _humans_ – for all these ages, my dear.” Zira sighed. “I was never meant to guard or guide them alone. I need you; they need _us_.”

The demon said nothing, but kissed his temple and slowly stroked his hair, and Zira closed his eyes, basking in the touch he’d denied them both for so long. Finally, he said, “I would love to spend days doing nothing but touching you like this, but we have to figure out what Agnes meant, sooner than later. How do we make it so we each get past the other side?”

“I’m having a thought,” Crowley answered, and Zira felt the voice rumble from Crowley’s chest into his own, “that it’s a mixture of possession _and_ glamour.” He pulled back, grinning. “Let’s give ‘em the old razzle-dazzle, Roxie.”

_Many hours later …_

“I think,” Aziraphale practically hummed, almost giddy with a nearly-assured victory over the forces of darkness, “it would be best if you left me alone from now on, hmm?” He didn’t even notice he’d gotten the socks wet, so focused he was on staring down Crowley’s tribunal of three shocked demons. He wanted to be certain each one looked into those snake’s eyes and realized they weren’t dealing with a tamed instrument of Satan, but instead, a dangerous and capricious foe it would be unwise to cross.

_Meanwhile …_

Crowley spent an inordinate time brushing down the lapels of the old coat and worn velveteen of the waistcoat, waiting until he raised his gaze and met the eyes of his angel’s failed executioners before tugging this way and that on the bowtie to even it out. “None the worse for wear,” he declared, putting as much beatific into the smile as he could muster from pre-Fall memory, “no thanks to you, of course.” He lowered his hands, fixing each with a frostier stare, gratified to see respect, at last, for the true power he knew this Principality could wield. “I trust there will be no more problems, and no interference in my work, as set out by those with … higher authority, than your order. Quite right?”

_In The Beginning, Take Two …_

“You told them WHAT?” Zira resisted the urge to react, scandalized, and instead laughed. “Oh dear. You had them think I’m acting on orders directly from Her?”

“Shhh,” Crowley tugged at the angel’s sleeve briefly and dropped his voice. “Keep it on the down-low; you’ve got to look like you already know all this, after all. I mean, _you_ said it.”

“Hmm. Quite.” Zira tried to give him a stern look, but he knew it just came out fond, particularly when the corner of Crowley’s mouth lifted in such a fetching smile. He reached for their second bottle of champagne. “More, my dear?”

He tilted his flute over, and even under the dark lenses, as always, Zira could tell Crowley’s gaze was fixed on him. “Always more, angel.”


End file.
